


Before The Sun Could Rise

by Onguarde



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: Cunnilingus, Erik is a huge babie, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fluff, LOTS of comforting, Loss of Virginity, Smut, Unhappy Ending, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-04
Updated: 2019-08-04
Packaged: 2020-07-31 07:14:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20111218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Onguarde/pseuds/Onguarde
Summary: The events of Beneath a Moonless Sky, in tremendous detail.Oneshot.





	Before The Sun Could Rise

Christine’s hand served to scoop up her endless skirts while the other, flat against the ancient concrete, provided leverage for her shaking stature. Each step acted as an opportunity contemplation and Christine had to pause, had to ponder over the eager calling of her urges, had to think. Really think.

She found herself procrastinating, her hesitant fingers toying and tracing the jagged indentations on the wall and, for a long moment, she wondered if the texture of his ruined face was akin to them. _Another aching step downwards._

She became aware that the veil upon her head had remained pinned firmly to the ringlets of her hair, as did the bridal dress he’d bound her in earlier that night. They were different people then, and the night was only a child.  
Regardless of the story connected to these garments, she didn’t dare remove them; not after the courtesy and care he’d taken to compose them for her. Each pattern, each ribbon and each fitted wire had been sewn and adhered to the fabric with such delicacy, such _focus_, by those skilled hands she’d once sought refuge in that it was hardly believable an atrocity like him could produce such quality.

Christine eventually took the final step down that wicked staircase, cursing the divine for not intervening in her path. She dug for an excuse. Why had she returned to him despite the malice he had caused? Perhaps she was daft, she concluded, as she dropped the dress to let the damp ground soil its hem.

As she neared it, she noticed that the paper-mâché music box continued to play uninvited from afar, no more than a few piping notes falling on deaf ears, and for once she longed to stop the embrace of his music. But it never ceased. It continued to mock her from its place beside the makeshift throne, and rightfully so, she thought. She had no business being there, especially after the havoc she’d wreaked upon the man on several occasions.

But there he was, on his knees, doubled over the glass surface of the lake, in the same position as when she had left earlier that night. He was there in person but seemed distant, distant. Christine stepped cautiously towards the figure and found his chest heaving rather than rising with each passing breath. The weight he carried - that her little mind once found inconceivable - became so clear in that moment that she understood, and she read it in his downcast face when he turned to see her. And yet, no words were exchanged between them.  
How could she forget the _horrors_ of that face? There was hardly enough of his yellow skin to sheath the bones beneath the surface of his face, and no muscle where there should’ve been plenty. The product of this result was frightening, he resembled something almost devilish. Christine gulped down the sight.

The now trembling woman mirrored Erik’s slumped pose before the lake and resigned by his side, watching him intently with each heavy breath. He spat a glance at her, brief, but it was enough. Coupled with his cheeks that were clad with tears that had dried and tightened his mangled parchment skin, Christine could not feel at ease with herself. At last, she spotted the ring concealed within his fist for only a second before it sunk into the black depths of the water. And still, no words were exchanged for the longest of minutes.

“I don’t understand why you must torment me so,” Erik began on an inhale as he rose to his feet and briskly dusted himself off, “You chose to leave with the Vicomte, did you not? And yet you’ve returned. To mock me, I’m sure, to revel in my struggle.”  
“No, Monsieur, not mock—”  
“Then why?” A sharp glare was shot in her direction that was enough to silence her immediately. When no answer came, he turned around and slowly retreated into the shadows of the cave, and with a fist rubbing at his tired eye, he continued,  
“I advise you to leave, Madame. I may not be so kind if you stay for much longer.”  
His dismissive tone was justified in her eyes, and she could not forgive herself if she did not at least attempt to ease the turmoil she was responsible for.

Despite the weight of her dress, Christine too, rose, and followed after the man she so desperately urged to console. A fraction of her wanted more, more than a good woman was entitled to, more than a brief exchange of dialogue. She wanted his heart, wholly, and she wished for him to confide in her, she prayed for his trust as a child would for a toy, but this proved difficult to acquire as he stared blankly at the wall and his gloved hands clasped behind his back. Still, she would try.

When he turned in her direction, a stroke of confidence struck her - at long last, that divine intervention she waited for - and she pressed her lips blindly to his engorged mouth, felt him tense up and stagger before finally relaxing against her forbidden touch. It lasted no longer than a few seconds, but its effects remained.  
When the fleeting kiss finally broke, they could only stand before one another, defenceless and silent. For several moments Christine listened to the kind sussurus of the flowing lake, to the violent sputtering of the flaming candles, to her own heartbeat as it hammered against her ribcage. The muscles of Erik’s misshapen jaw tensed and ground, as if he wished to speak but could not summon the right words.  
And then a hand was upon her neck, gripping so tightly that her oxygen was completely cut from her use.  
“Interesting Christine, very interesting. You do amuse me.” said Erik, his taunting words like hot embers against her skin. She scratched at the locked fist and it freed her, leaving her to fall to her knees, gasp, and savour a huge intake of air.  
“Erik, I _love_ you.” she began her confession through a strained breath, but her words quickly died in the depths of her throat and all that was left of her was the terrified gaze that stayed glued to his softening expression. He considered her for a long moment, scanned her over throughly with his hard gaze, and soon his courageous façade deteriorated before her eyes. It began with the trembling of his balled fists and soon Erik, too, dropped to her level to touch his forehead against the ground in surrender.

Christine was dazzled. Was he bowing to her? _No, he couldn’t possibly_— and she realised, as his shoulders sank and his mangled face buried itself within the comfort of his palms, that the beast was weeping.

She sat in stunned silence for numerous moments as the inconsolable cries bordered on sobs. A hand of hers raised to lay on his shoulder, an appropriately distanced yet comforting gesture, but his crying ceased before contact could even occur. Two calloused hands ran across the gelled hair of his wig and Erik arched himself back up at last, as if he was already regaining his composure.  
“Monsieur, are y—“  
“I’m sure we’re past formalities, Christine.” He apprehended her wrists in his unforgiving grasp, studying the porcelain skin as it turned a sickly shade of red.  
“Do you really love me as you say you do?” asked Erik with such unsettled desperation that Christine could only nod, lest her tone be misread in his frenzied state. He looked capable of anything in all the wrong ways.  
“Then let me kiss you, Christine, let me have you for one night. If you please, you may depart in the morning.”

It was a difficult proposal for the trembling woman. Despite the circumstances, she longed for his company more than anything. If she chose to stay, she’d be denying herself a life - proper, modest life - and the mere possibility for a good reputation. On the other hand, leaving him so distraught and unkempt would be a crushing weight on her conscience. She’d shown him the most compassion he’d ever received, and even that was minimal. How could she possibly live with herself if she were to abandon him as everyone else had? As his own mother had?  
She was weak, weak as she weighed the odds in her head, indecisive, until a decision came to her at last, like it was handed to her personally by the angels above.

All in the name of love, she professed.

And she kissed him once more, until his malformed lips felt no longer foreign but instead merged with hers, and so as one they kissed, and kissed. Their tongues met, a phenomenon Erik had only ever read about, and they danced with the fire of their passion, pent up passion, enthusiasm, unrefined lust and God knows what else. The thrill of desperate contact outlived their breathing, and Christine only broke from him to inhale sharply, but she was soon upon Erik once more, and so their kissing resumed, perhaps even more fervently than before.

And, like all good things, the kiss eventually came to an end.  
It was only when Christine noticed his unnatural silence that she began to question Erik’s spirits, “What’s troubling you?” came the sweetest of voices, hushed, but heavy with concern.  
The reply was even quieter still. “The Vicomte is a good man, Christine. He must be searching for you frantically as we speak.”  
The low tone in his voice became justified at last, and she understood.  
“What use is a good heart when yours is made of gold? I wouldn’t trade it for a million francs, Erik.” A pause, “Are you sure that you want me?”  
Erik shot her a dumbfounded look, “I want you more than anything! You could not possibly be more aware of this.” And with that, he planted a hand firmly on his stomach as if to dismiss the shame gnawing there, so rabid and so great that it kept him from meeting her gaze. He longed for the woman, that was certain, but she was so beautiful, so packed with potential! Surely it would be a waste to pair her up with someone so ridiculously lamentable - and ugly? She’d come to her senses, he was sure, and would grow to regret any relations she may have had with him.  
And yet, remarkably, he found no traces of disgust in her eyes. She gazed upon his face as if it was the most beautiful thing she’d ever cast her eyes on, as if he, this sad excuse for a man, was beautiful.

“Let me show you that you’re not alone, Erik, please.” And with that, a gentle knuckle brushed past his bad cheek in the most comforting fashion. That same hand cupped the ruined half of his face before her lips were against his once more and his thoughts were ripped from him. His own advancements were made; a hand steadying her by the hips as the other brushed a bundle of brown curls off her shoulder, before joining the other on the free side of her hips. It was impossible to believe that he was the same man that bound a scarlet rope around her fiancé’s neck in a murderous plan just hours before.

They rocked together, swayed, like willow trees in the wind, slowly. Their frantic kissing matured into something more profound, intimate, and he eventually moved from Christine’s mouth to the curvature of her neck, slowly, past her collarbones, and to the fleshy tops of her breasts that sat in full view above the cut of her dress. A pair of needy hands slid from her hips to these same breasts, ghosted above them hesitantly, before giving the cups a hearty squeeze. To his amazement, Christine did not draw back in objection. In fact, she held a look in her eyes that Erik could only describe as inviting. He was no stranger to erotic literature - after all, spending the entirety of your life underground would do a number on anyone - but he was aghast at her surprisingly compliant reaction towards his suggestive gestures.  
“Christine.” he breathed, eyes following her hands as they moved behind her to loosen the corset she was trapped in. Christine let out a long sigh of obvious relief as her skin was freed, and her breasts bounced freely from their restraints. Priceless, she thought, that look in his eyes. It was evident that he’d never seen anything quite like them, and he stared in awe until he gained the courage to touch them.

“Forgive me, Christine. I don’t know what I’m doing.” He exhaled.  
“Don’t be silly. Just do as you feel is right!” His nervous candour triggered a rippling laugh from Christine, who nodded her head and kissed the tip of his malformed nose to ease the awkwardness. His hands cradled and palmed the white flesh of her breasts, toying with them, and watching as her mouth parted from how sensitive they were. She thought he resembled something more like a curious child than a man in his prime, but soon that arousal became prominent in him too, judging by the eager mass now pushing against the fabric of his trousers, and as if reading her thoughts, Erik resorted to a different approach.  
With one arm hooked under her ass to lift her up, the other flattened against her back to steady her as he carried the woman to lay her down on the cushioning within the black gondola. The sight of her limp and delicate and vulnerable before his eyes restored a fraction of his control, deemed him more than capable of protecting and preserving her, but also capable of ruining her, and the thought alone was enough to flush his cheeks a deep red. But she was not inferior to him - much to the contrary, he possessed a social title much lower than she, which kept him humble.  
His eyes skimmed her, skimmed the naked skin of her chest and the pink buds of her nipples, studied the way Christine raised her arms as she beckoned for his attention, she needed him, his touch and his hot breath on her neck—

And yet he didn’t move, didn’t dare. He was entranced by her endless beauty, and he felt something similar to guilt to the idea of soiling this unmatched beauty with his corrupt self. He couldn’t do it, couldn’t live with himself, couldn’t possibly—  
And a hot tear fell from his eye, like a white pearl rolling past the divots of his scarred skin and Christine wiped it away with the back of her hand, once again reminding him of his heavy worth. No more tears followed. Convinced, he climbed upon her fragile frame, combing his fingers through her hair as he kissed her full lips, and plucked free the lace of her petty-skirt to remove it altogether so that he had a full view of her body. The tightness of it left behind imprints on her angel skin, red indentations that he traced with his fingers. Her eyes followed. These same gnarled fingers ran down the curvature of her abdomen, past her navel, and buried themselves in the sea of brown curls above that sacred place; the place reserved for the man she would one day marry but was instead being offered to him — him! with such freedom! Oh, it was a sin!— and yet she looked so eager and so pliant beneath him, she wanted this, she wanted this, would it not also be a sin to deny her?

Christine stifled a gasp as his curious fingers searched for that hidden bundle of nerves between her legs. When he finally did, he rubbed tight circles against it with such urgency that she had to gasp and arch her back into his sweet touch. Like earlier, no words were exchanged, only the silence of their shared amazement.  
“You’re letting me do this, Christine. You’re really letting me do this.” He repeated the statement quietly to himself, as if he couldn’t quite register it, couldn’t believe that they were his fingers causing her to convulse so sweetly beneath him and his cock prodding at the soft flesh of her thigh.  
His digits quickened to the rhythm of her rocking hips, until she was crying out his name— _his name! _And before her sweet release could claim her, he withdrew his fingers from her and watched as she protested silently.

“Not yet, my songbird.” He cooed in such a way that Christine had to bat his shoulder. An amused chuckle followed.  
His fingers soon returned, but lower this time. Christine felt strange pressure as he prodded at her entrance just slightly, threatening to enter her but never daring to. It was torment, this unbearable teasing, she feared it and yet she’d never longed for anything so desperately before, she bucked into his hand, whined—  
And at last, her command was listened to. Erik cautiously thrust a single finger inside that was met with resistance, a barrier of sorts, but it was flimsy and he broke through it with minimal force. A yelp rose from her and he had to look up, alarmed, “Did I hurt you, Christine?” Came his little voice, paired with wide eyes as he tried to locate the source of the problem. And ah, there it was—

He spotted them, the few drops of scarlet running down his knuckles and past his wrist to stain the white sleeve of his blouse, the very physical proof of her lifelong virtue reduced to a measly stream of red on his arm. A prominent wince took over her face, he saw, and her fingers were flexed deeply into the covers.  
“No, I’m fine. Don’t hesitate now, Monsieur!” She followed with a gentle chortle. It was expected, of course, had it not been then she would have more reason to be agitated. But at long last, she relaxed, and at long last, he advanced with his ministrations.

Erik lifted her hips to grind his clothed erection against her, burying it between the round cushioning of her asscheeks and watching as her face grew red. His patience, which had already been in short supply to begin with, ran out completely at the little needy moans and ‘ah’s she let soar, and he unhooked the button of his trousers to free his eager cock, which bounced out and throbbed wildly at her touch. It was a muddled shade of reddish purple, much like his battered face, but it seemed to compensate as it was noticeably lengthy, and possessed a generous girth. A smirk played at Christine’s lips. Again, she bucked herself against him, watching as the underside of his appendage parted her red folds with each greedy motion, and their conjoined moaning crescendoed into a staggering halt. Soon, he was coated in the proof of her arousal and thought to align himself perfectly with her opening, and entered her with such fluidity that he broke out in a shudder.

Christine cried out at the foreign intrusion, invading her, stretching her to an extent that she found almost agonising and, noticing this, his fingers returned to that sensitive pearl just above their union, on which circles were rubbed once more. Her lips parted painfully but no sound emerged, only her strained breathing as he laid his weight on her, and God, he wasn’t even fully in yet—  
“Oh, heavens, Erik!”  
In order to grant himself better access to her body, Erik threw one of her legs over his shoulder and simply let the other hang freely in the air as he held it. His hips began their onslaught, ramming and rocking and pounding into her with such incredible force that she had to grab onto the gondola to stabilise herself, and he watched her through it all, with that shit-eating grin on his face, and those eyes!

“Christine,_ Christine_,” He repeated as he bit back a few moans, but that velvet heat gripping him so perfectly made it almost impossible to stay quiet, and so he broke free at last, groaning and crying her name into the crook of her shoulder as she rocked herself into the pistons of his hips. The merciless stretching melted away into enjoyment, pleasure even, and that pleasure bordered on unrefined bliss, and soon her mouth dropped open and her senses fell flat; her sight had vanished and now her hearing was going too, and her last words must’ve been an incoherent jumble of pleas and his name as he carried her through that climax and beyond. Christine, limp in his hands, threw her head black as she returned slowly but steadily to the world, chest rising and falling out of rhythm as sweat plastered her dishevelled curls to her neck.

She looked _beautiful_, he thought, as she bathed in the afterglow, bared before him and completely vulnerable. She looked exhausted and yet he never stopped the moving of his hips - couldn’t even if he wished to - for now they had a mind of their own and they worked in favour of that pressure building in his abdomen.  
“I’m sorry, Christine, bear with me—“  
And she kissed him, palms flat behind her as he continued to thrust into her hot core, over and over, as tears of sweat rolled down his temples and his breathing became raggedy with strain, the kissing never ceased, not even after she felt him swell up within and fill her with the burning product of their act, that pent up essence which now dribbled down her bottom and stained the bedding beneath.

He slid out of her, gently, and received an equally gentle groan in response.  
For several moments he could only stare at her satisfied face, wondering if this was reality or just a rotten trick of the mind. A trick, he concluded, it had to be, because he never imagined he’d be allowed to hold this gorgeous woman close and caress her hair, and yet that’s what he was doing, after dropping his heaving, exhausted weight by her side. He kissed her temple, laid his hand over hers, and watched in amazement at how swiftly sleep had taken her from him.

“I love you.” He whispered, and as if he could hear him, she rolled to face him and nuzzled her darling face into the warmth of his chest.  
He held her for what felt like hours as she slept, stroked her hair away from her face and tugged the covers over her nude body to shield her from the unforgiving temperatures of his lair. He admired her endless beauty as she dreamed, the impossible curl of her eyelashes, her fleshy lips, her sculpted cheekbones. And all the while, he compared these features to his own; the sudden, misshapen drop of his nasal bridge, his engorged lips, the revolting colour of his face and the corpse-like build of him. How could she be infatuated by such a thing?

His grip on her loosened as shame took its deathly toll on him.  
He wasn’t worthy of this blessing, despite how desperately she attempted to convince him of such an absurdity, he wasn’t capable of handing her the life she deserved. _Pretty things should not be kept from the world,_ he thought to himself, _they should be admired and left to flourish, not caged beneath the ground. _

And she would not flourish if she were to stay with him.

In his lonesome daze, the Phantom - yes, a phantom, because that’s what he closely resembled in his eyes - planted a quick kiss on her unsuspecting, sleeping face, before rising to his feet once more.  
“I’m sorry, Christine.” The low whisper trembled on his lips.

And he slipped into the dark, to never return,  
beneath a moonless sky.


End file.
